I'm not a complainer. Let me rephrase that: I'm not one to complain to anyone who can actually remedy the situation. I don't send food back when it's gross; I don't call the insurance people when our (cough *overpriced*) insurance doesn't cover a routine exam; hell, I don't even complain to the parking lot attendant when he overcharges me (which doesn't happen that often, to be honest). And, clearly, I don't complain to a bed and breakfast owner whose bed is breaking my back and whose breakfast I've not tasted but have been made to feel guilty for missing. That said, and as this blog clearly evidences, I'll complain loudly and often to anyone else who'll listen. Why is that? I know I'm not alone in this trait, this willingness to go along to get along, to not make waves, to make lemonade, and so on and so forth. Why do so many of us seem perfectly happy to whine about our problems to anyone but those who ought to know about them?

So, I subscribe to a number of history-related mailing lists (let the mocking begin). It helps me keep abreast (insert Beavis laugh, and extra points if you know who Beavis is) of the job market, new publications, upcoming conferences, and whatnot. Translation: it's usually fairly boring. But, BUT! Occasionally someone will post a seemingly mundane question to the list, then one thing leads to another, and all hell breaks loose. Suddenly, history professors across the country scramble to remember how to post a message to the list! Chaos runs rampant! But, honestly, it's not like these guys are debating how best to cure cancer. Today's flurry of activity began innocently enough, about an old history monograph. It quickly devolved into whether or not the Constitution helped or hurt fugitive slaves. Regardless of the topic, whenever this happens, I can't help but picture a bunch of old guys in tweed suits throwing elbows. All decorum goes out the window when the name-calling and wedgie-giving ensues.

This morning, as John and I headed for the front door of Badly Decorated Bed and Breakfast, the breakfast saga got even weirder when the owners' personal trainer remarked that we weren't sticking around for breakfast for the second day in a row. Whaaaa? I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met. My name is NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. Seriously! When did it become a federal crime to refuse the breakfast portion of a bed and breakfast?

On the air mattress front, John didn't sleep well last night (understandably), which for John means that he talked in his sleep a lot. He woke me up at 4 in the morning wondering aloud what was on his face. He kept pointing at his nose and saying, "what's this??? What's this???" to which I replied "... ... ...it's your nose." Apparently that wasn't satisfactory, though, because then he began touching his upper lip furiously and saying, "there's a bug here! A bug! I CAN FEEL IT!!!" And, really, how can you argue with somnolent logic like that? I hate to admit that I actually looked (smacks forehead), then hissed at him gently encouraged him to go back to sleep.

And now for something completely unrelated: I like Rose and Radish just as much as the next person. But $34 for a single napkin? Isn't that a bit much? Are they individually handmade by Belgian unicorns or something?

No, I'm not actually going to write an entire blog post just to complain about the crappy air mattress in our room. Although allow me to say that for what it's costing us to stay here, we could purchase two brand new normal beds (box spring and mattress, for those of you keeping score) and go out for a nice meal afterwards. I'm just sayin'. Needless to say, last night's sleep was not so grate, akshully. Not wanting to partake of the breakfast social hour (where, seriously, everyone goes around the table and says their name, occupation, likes and dislikes, etc.), we left early and headed to breakfast at Open City. It was a crisp, peaceful morning in the Woodley Park area and a great way to start the day. Washington is such a funny town. It's big, yes, but it also has a great small-town feel. You can walk virtually everywhere, spending gobs of time outdoors enjoying the breeze and the sunshine. Plus, for being such an incredibly urban area, DC has a lot of great green spaces. It's really a lovely city. At the same time, almost paradoxically, it also has the feel of a very lonely city. Over half a million people live here, making it a very bustling area, but not one person in twenty will actually make eye contact with you. They're very busy, hustling from point A to point B, headphones or cell phones firmly attached to their ears, eyes straight forward. It's sort of like a city of pod people, which is not to disparage it at all. I do like DC a great deal, but I don't think I'm cut out for the lifestyle it seems to demand. And with that, I'm off to bed. The air mattress awaits.

We're in DC again this week; more research for me to do at the Library of Congress. And as we couldn't get into the bed and breakfast we usually stay in, I got us a room at another bed and breakfast. I knew when I booked this place that it would be... different. But nothing could have prepared me for just how different. The house itself is a nice brick row house with a great little garden out front and a pretty porch in the back. The inside of the house, however, is like something out of this world. The carpeting is blood red. The wall paint in our room is blood red. The walls throughout the house are covered (side to side, top to bottom) in enormous framed prints. The rooms are crammed full of oversized furniture. The bed we're supposed to sleep on is (wait for it) an AIR MATTRESS. We're paying $150 a night for the privilege of sleeping on an air mattress. I can hear the people down the hall coughing, quietly, which means that I can also probably hear them writing to-do lists and thinking really, really hard. But all of that pales in comparison to the owners. We'll call them Alice and Bob. When Alice showed us to our room, she took great pains to tell us that we shouldn't just stay in our room, that we should feel free to sit! In the many sitting rooms! And make ourselves comfortable! As guests should! And read the guidebooks! The many guidebooks! At some point during the grand tour (during which she, no shit, showed us how to unlock the front door-- if you guessed that it's just like unlocking the front door at your own damned house, you get a gold sticker), she talked to us at length about breakfast. Breakfast, apparently, is a communal affair and is prime socializing hour. It begins at 8:00 and everyone eats together. Dude. I'm not paying $150 a night to sleep on an air mattress AND be social in the mornings. If we didn't want breakfast, she explained, we merely had to note that on the whiteboard in the kitchen. Which we did, when we got back from dinner. Except that when we then turned to walk up to our room, she followed us and made certain that we knew just how disappointed she was, tut tut tut. I'm sorry, I didn't realize when I booked this place that it came fully equipped with a Jewish mother! *sigh* It's a nonrefundable reservation, so unless disaster strikes we'll have to tough it out, I'm sorry to say. If you don't hear from me in a couple days, send help.

So, I've not been sleeping well lately. SHOCKING, I know. I'll give you a minute to crawl back up into your chair, having recently fallen out of it because you were so surprised at my sleep update. All settled? Good. Now, I was reading about Eden's on-going battle with insomnia the other day, and she mentioned that taking a calcium supplement with magnesium before bed helped her sleep. To which a commenter added that eating a banana and drinking a glass of milk had helped her sleep. So that's my new plan: eat a banana (food miles be damned!) and choke down a glass of milk before bed. Hopefully that will keep the night terrors AND the light sleeping AND the drooling at bay. Stay tuned.

Years ago, when we were in college, John and I were flipping channels one night and came across a standup act on HBO. My roommate and I didn't get HBO, so the picture was terribly grainy, but we caught enough of it to know that we needed to see more of this British comedian named Eddie Izzard. His comedy was not only funny, it was smart- something you don't see too often in an age when "git 'er done" sends many people into uproarious laughter. I called the cable company the very next day and bought HBO, just so we could catch the show again. Ever since then, John and I have wanted to see Eddie live. In college, we never had the money to go see him. But a few months ago, I found out that he was going on tour again in the states. We spent last night in Tampa, seeing Eddie perform live, at last. And I don't think I've ever laughed so damned hard. My stomach still aches from laughing for over two hours straight. There were many times when I was laughing so hard that I was crying, laughing so hard that I had to keep wiping tears from my face, laughing so hard that I had a hard time catching my breath. If you have the means, and you have the opportunity, I highly recommend you go see Eddie live. It's an experience you won't soon forget. I can't remember the last time I had So. Much. FUN.

Okay, cards on the table time. The other problem with working from home is the knowledge that my bed is just down the hallway. Can I tell you how much I love that bed (which, let's be honest, I capitalize as if it's a proper noun, as in "Bed")? I have been known, when I'm extra tired, to compose Odes To Bed once I've crawled under the sheets. Usually they're short, like "All Good Things Happen In Bed" or "Bed is So Nice" or something like that. I come by this Bed love affair honestly. My mom also has an affinity for Bed. When I was little, she used to call down the stairs from my parents' room and say, "What would we do without beds?" This Bed Mania isn't without its hazards, though, as every now and again when I'm neck-deep in research, I have the sudden urge to go take a nap. I convince myself that it wouldn't be a long nap, and don't I deserve a little break? And that's just a slippery slope. Because first it's all, "I'll just take a five minute nap." And then it's "I haven't fallen asleep after five minutes, so I might as well set an alarm for an hour from now." And then, before you know it, someone is shaking you and informing you that it's been three days, are you're planning on going back to work ever? I'm just saying.

Crazy Old Neighbor's house went on the market on Sunday and had three offers by Monday afternoon. (How that happens in this kind of market, in this kind of economy, is baffling to me.) The new homeowner came over yesterday to introduce himself and make small talk. He was wearing a beige tracksuit (unbuttoned to reveal the top third of his chest), sported enormous sunglasses, and said to John "you ever got a problem, you call me-- 'cause I'm good at that stuff." I can't be certain, but I think he's actually Elliott Gould as Reuben Tishkoff from the Ocean's movies:

Have you ever stopped to think about the things you used to wear? I'm not talking about that one ill-conceived outfit you wore once and never again. I'm talking about the clothing and accessories you used to sport on a regular, if not a daily basis. Does it make you cringe? Just this morning I was thinking about a necklace that all the girls in junior high were wearing one year. I wanted one SO badly. For my birthday that year, I got one. What was it, you ask? It was a jingle bell necklace. And I thought it was the very essence of cool. And what about tight-rolled jeans? Remember that fad? Are you cringing yet? How about Hypercolor tshirts? Do you ever wonder if there's a trend that people are sporting right now that we'll look back on with incredulity? Oh, wait...

Growing up in Kansas, I learned very early on that tornadoes were a constant threat during the summer. It gets hammered into Kansans that a tornado can strike anywhere, at any time. But I always sort of thought that my hometown would be spared. I'm not quite sure why that is, but I felt like my hometown was invincible. When I checked my email this morning, I had an email from my friend Amy: "Are your parents okay? What about their house???" And my heart sunk: tornado. I called my parents and left a message: "IHEARDTHEREWASATORNADOCALLMEBACK." Then I called my brother, in Baltimore, hoping that he had heard from them. Another answering machine. "THEREWASATORNADOINMANHATTANCALLMEBACK." Finally, I was able to get some news. And after what seemed like an eternity, I talked to my family. My hometown sustained some damage, but thankfully nothing that can't be fixed. It may not be invincible after all, but at least it's still there. phew

The thing about working from home that nobody seems to realize is just how much toilet paper you go through. Think about it! When you're at the office, you occasionally have to use the facilities (let's be adults here and not go into specifics). So you do, and you use office toilet paper. For eight hours a day, five days a week, you've got access to toilet paper that someone else is buying. But when you work from home? Not so much with the free toilet paper. This is something that wasn't explained to me adequately when both John and I started working from home. It wasn't explained at all, come to think of it. So now I have this nagging thought that I should start tracking how much money we spend on toilet paper for the bathroom between our offices, so that I can write it off on our taxes. Hey, it's a home office expense, right? RIGHT?

You may have noticed that I haven't mentioned my crazy old neighbor lately. And you may well be wondering whatever happened to that old codger. Well, you wouldn't be alone. He's been on my mind a lot lately. There was that incident several months ago when he subtly accused John of stealing a carving set of his. He actually called the police out to his house, but found the carving set just as they pulled up to his house. Then there was that incident not long after that when he called our house and demanded that we pay a $200 false-alarm charge on his home security bill. That was fun. It became clear to us that he was going downhill quite quickly. He mentioned to John, in passing, that he had gotten lost on his way home from the doctor not long ago. And we wondered if there was anything we could do to help him. Why did his children seem unconcerned about their aging father? Then, out of the blue, his son came down for a visit about two months ago. After which, our crazy old neighbor completely disappeared. His lawn service kept mowing his lawn and keeping the grounds tidy. But otherwise there was no sign of life in the house next door. Then suddenly, this past weekend, there was a flurry of activity. Several cars, including the son's, pulled up to the house, along with a realtor. Then one of those PODS (Portable On Demand Storage) showed up in the driveway. And as the contents of the house got loaded into the waiting pod, I couldn't help but wonder what happened to our crazy old neighbor. Hopefully he's somewhere with a much shorter fence, so that he doesn't have to drag a ladder out to see over it.

(Incidentally, the title of this post emanates not from where I think he's gone, but rather where I think I'm headed since I bellyached about him forever and now he may be dead. Ahem.)

Me [talking about two friends]: So this year they will have been married eight years!
John: Wow!
Me: Guess that means they made it past the seven year itch.
John: What?
Me: You haven't heard about that?
John: I thought it was a disease.
::silence::
John: No? Not a disease?

I am truly a child of the '80s. Whenever John talks to me about capacitors of any kind, I interrupt with a Back to the Future reference. It usually goes something like this:

John: So if I could hook it up to a capacitor...
Me: A flux capacitor?
John: Uh, no

OR

John: In order to do that, I'd need to start with a capacitor and...
Me: A flux capacitor?
John: sigh

OR

John: He wanted to sell us a capacitor.
Me: A flux capacitor?
John: AAARGH!

Apparently a flux capacitor doesn't actually exist. Whatever, dude.

So the other night, apparently, as I was drifting to sleep I waxed rhapsodic about how great it would be to have a yurt. A cozy yurt where we could get away from it all when we needed to. Some people get timeshares in the Caymans, some have toasty cabins in the Alps. I evidently dream of having a yurt out in the middle of nowhere with-- let's be clear-- no running water, no electricity, and (gasp!) no internet. At first John thought I was crazy, but I must have made a great pitch because suddenly he was really on board with the idea. I woke up the next morning with a vague yurt memory. "Did I say something about a yurt last night?" "Yeah!!! It was so cool!" "That's completely weird." "Wait... you don't want to have a yurt?" Oh dear.

The fundamental problem I have with Facebook is that random people from my past keep "friending" me. People from high school, who I've not seen lo these twelve years and who (in some cases) I deliberately did not keep in touch with, continue to find me and friend me on Facebook. On the one hand, it's harmless. It's not as if these people are going to pressure me into reconnecting and establishing some meaningful relationship based on "remember when?". On the other hand, whaaa? How much time do these people have on their hands? Are they seriously trolling Facebook looking for people with whom they went to high school? Is it about collecting as many friends as possible on Facebook? If so, to what end? What's the point? If I haven't seen you, much less talked to you, in over a decade, pray why bother reconnecting on Facebook? It seems like an extended high school reunion (an event I've deliberately avoided). Isn't it awkward? Once you get beyond the basic update ("I'm now married/divorced/serially single, living in Houston/Canada/Uzbekistan, employed as a model/editor/brothel-keeper"), what is there to say? Or, to take another path, if I reject their "friending," am I committing some major faux pas? Is it high school all over again? If I'm missing something, please tell me.

If you didn't watch Game 4 of the Stanley Cup final last night, you missed an epic battle. The Redwings had already won three games to the Penguins' one; all they had to do was win last night and the Stanley Cup was theirs. And frankly, the Penguins didn't look great. They played fairly lackluster hockey in the second and third periods, getting more and more tired while the Redwings increasingly amped up the pressure. But when it counted-- when the Redwings looked like they had clinched it, 3-2 in the final seconds of regulation-- the Penguins tied it up with a heart-stopping goal. They had bet the farm: pulling their goalie and leaving an empty net to gain a sixth defender, they risked everything for a shot that defied all the odds. You had to admire the way they kept standing back up and fighting, against all odds, against an arguably better and more experienced Detroit team. My mom, who is not a sports fan, always says of the winning team, "Well, they just wanted it more." And that always irritated me so much because it took all the logic out of the game-- the skill, the calls, the athleticism-- and reduced it down to an emotional desire. But I swear to you, you could tell last night that the Penguins wanted it more. That although the Stanley Cup itself was inside the stadium, waiting for the Redwings to win, as tens of thousands of Detroit fans fully expected them to, that Pittsburgh wanted to win more. The game went into overtime, then double overtime, then triple overtime. And you could see the disbelief on the faces of the Redwings, incredulous that the Penguins just wouldn't quit. And finally, the Penguins' scrappy drive and determination paid off, as they sent six ounces of vulcanized rubber into the Redwings' goal. Exhausted, bruised, and bloodied, they had held off the seasoned Detroit team and forced a Game 6. They just wanted it more.

It dawned on us recently that there's a birthday coming up in the family this week. (We would have realized it earlier, but it would have involved turning the page on the calendar. We're quick like that.) Without naming names, I'll just say that it's important that we buy this person something, anything, that it would not go unnoticed if we failed to make a gesture. But the problem is that this person doesn't need anything. That is, this person has the means to buy whatever their little heart desires several times over. So, the dilemma we face is, what do you get for the person who has everything? Or, as another family member said, "What the heck do you buy for someone that has so much money they can buy whatever the hell they want anyway?"